


The Fallout

by dianekepler, Ywain Penbrydd (penbrydd)



Series: The Waterverse [2]
Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Learning your son is alive because porn, M/M, Regret, Revenge, Romulans and Chocolate, Sarek's A+ Parenting, Self-Harm, Tabloids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-16
Updated: 2009-08-19
Packaged: 2018-09-27 00:37:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9941753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dianekepler/pseuds/dianekepler, https://archiveofourown.org/users/penbrydd/pseuds/Ywain%20Penbrydd
Summary: The fallout after Zahvan T'Masu, and the lead up to Abmarkan'es. Starek has regrets. T'Nis releases what footage she has to any outlet that will take it. Spock has no sufficient excuse to offer his father, and must return to his ship, where everyone has seen the news.





	1. Starek's Personal Log

**Starek's Personal Log:**

  * I got hired to do a job. I did it. I regretted it. I fell in love with the goddamn target. FML.
  * Rephrasing the earlier sentiment: Today, I fell in love with the man I was supposed to out as a fag in front of the entire Quadrant. Then he broke my heart. Then I offered him one of my Orion engineers, to counteract my earlier indiscretions. I need all of my engineers and all of my body parts. FML.
  * He didn't take the Orion. He also didn't take me. FML.
  * Down three mochas. Double-chocolate wasn't cutting it. Replicated a jar of Nutella, and have been mixing it in, by the tablespoon. Pretty sure there's broken glass in front of the vanity. Think it's because I've been throwing cups.
  * Reflecting on mind melds. Wonder what I don't know I gave up. Hope it wasn't anything important. If it had anything to do with the Delta VII incident, I can kiss my ass goodbye. FML.
  * On the floor, in front of the replicator. Not sure how many mochas, but there's glass everywhere. FML.
  * (thick and slurred, very drunk, possibly crying) I'm a space pirate and I just lost my mental virginity to a Starfleet officer. FML.
  * Can't bring myself to look at the news. It's early evening. Know I slept, don't know how long. Think I'm still drunk.
  * Definitely still drunk. Just fell in the glass. It really is all over the floor. FML.
  * Merendith has me strapped to a table in her office, until I sober up. She made fun of me, while picking the glass out of my hands. GLASS. out of my HANDS. Love you, too, Doc. FML.
  * Just heard Stavret's trying to recycle the glass all over my floor. Am sure this is a ploy to guilt me into something, later.
  * D'nila just came in and reminded me that I miss Spock. She wants details from last night. Cannot strangle Chief Engineer while strapped to table. FML.
  * Relatively sober. Have been informed I did not vomit all over my floor. Suspect this is why I was so drunk for so long. Not sure which of these options is worse.
  * Stavret came by to tell me what a fuckup I am. Also, he's proud of me for doing something meaningful for myself, for a change. FOR A CHANGE. Must re-examine life. In the mean time, FML.
  * No longer strapped down. Returned to my quarters. Pretending to have nerves of steel, so I can look at the news and judge the damage done. Not cool enough, yet. Should sleep. Can't sleep. Too much coffee. FML.




	2. Repudiation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sarek is in no way impressed by Spock's behavior.

**Sarek is utterly expressionless and still. He is also closer to losing control than Spock has ever seen.**

**_"[Ovsot-duhsu](View?docid=dfd5p4tm_145jvkgg9)," _ he repeats, for the third time.**

**_"[Worla ki'gla-tor kloshai ni'kae'ampik riolozhikaik. Ki'ri'ruskaraya du t'c'thia, ha? Aksh'lz ki'kosh-ves ni'ek'esik Nirak t'ax-nav. Vesht nam-tor dwemish ni-an t'du wilat? Vesht nam-tor nahap t'skan t'etek wilat? T'sular t'etek?](View?docid=dfd5p4tm_3cjjr8kd5)" _ **

**Spock is immobile, gazing past his father through the window here on the fifty-seventh floor of this residential tower. Outside is the city and beyond that are the cold waters of the Pacific, murky in the grey predawn light. Briefly, he wonders if the glass will yield if he were to run against it, full-force.**

**_"[Vesht nam-tor ovsof fam-esh-tukhik?](View?docid=dfd5p4tm_3cjjr8kd5)"_ **

**Sarek's accusation brings Spock back to the present moment. Somehow he cannot bring himself to reply in his native language.  
**

**"I can only repeat that I was not aware-"**

**" _[Guhsh! Kupi ki'nam-tor vesht pash-tor goh du k'ni'maut-kmun-](View?docid=dfd5p4tm_3cjjr8kd5)" _**

**The comm that is part of Sarek's desk warbles. He reaches forward to stab the answer button, but at the last moment slows his finger and presses it instead.**

**_"[Kevet-dutar Sarek la. Ha. Ra](View?docid=dfd5p4tm_3cjjr8kd5)?"  _ There is a pause. _"[Sat'voh na'nash-veh. Rai -- el'rek-tor ish-veh. Ha. Rom-halan](View?docid=dfd5p4tm_3cjjr8kd5)." _**

**Sarek immediately taps a few other areas on his desk interface. The holographic display to his left is filled with stylized lines of vertical script. A message from the homeworld. But Sarek dismisses it before Spock, who is both unfamiliar with the handwriting and reading backwards is even part of the way through.**

**Previously, the ambassador's expression was stony, but now it is positively glacial.**

**_"Do you have any idea who that was?"_ Suddenly, it appears that their mother-tongue is odious to Sarek as well. **

**Spock stands rigidly in place. He knows no reply is expected.**

**"That was T'Pring's father. He has just informed me that earlier today your intended wife took ill, at least that was the euphemism he employed. Apparently it was high noon in Shi'Kahr when you pulled your little stunt and T'Pring felt it _through the bond_. She had to be carried away from the midday meal, writhing," here he suppresses a shudder, "like a [le-matya](View?docid=dfd5p4tm_3cjjr8kd5) in heat."**

**Had Spock been alone, he might have pressed both hands to his face. But here there is no such option.**

**_"[T'kona. Ukra'uh pla'na'Yel-Halitra. Ki'nekwitau nash-veh nafai-tor mesh.](View?docid=dfd5p4tm_3cjjr8kd5)"_ **

  
**The young officer turns stiffly on heel and strides, with a brittle sort of feeling, towards the door.**

 


	3. Reflections of a Starship Pirate

It's like being stuck in a box -- a goddamn glass box. I can see out, and the world can see in, but no matter what I say, no one can hear me. I'm there, but I'm not part of anything. This is not new. It's always been like this.  
  
Sometimes, I think the box is the ship, but it's not. It's smaller than that. At least here, the things that don't matter get heard. It keeps us intact. But, living is not the same as survival.  
  
The golden passion that's kept us up, these past years? It's gone. Maybe I'm the only one who knows, but I doubt it. Merendith's been looking at me strangely since we left orbit. All the colour has run out of me, but I can still see it in everything else. It's funny, you know, I always heard that the colour would run out of the world. But, it's still there, taunting me. The burning in my soul is envy. And the burning in my blood is jealousy. The green is there. A rich, deep colour -- darker than blood. It's the only colour I have left, to myself.  
  
My wits are gutted, that's for certain, and I'm not sure if I'm as pleased as I should be that I haven't been thrown to the dogs. I can't feel my fingers. They've been numb for days. Merendith tells me it's not from the glass. She tells me it's shock, and then she gives me the eye, like she wants to know what could've made such an impact without tearing the ship apart. I haven't told her. Probably won't. D'nila probably will. It's impossible to keep a romance away from an Orion -- or vice versa.  
  
I'm empty on the inside, and the glass box just keeps getting smaller. How long until I implode, I wonder?  
  
Must've said it out loud. Merendith's telling me it's not possible, and I wish I believed her. Stavret's giving me the look that tells me we're going to talk about this, later. I don't really _want_ to talk about it, but something tells me I've stopped having a choice in the matter. You don't tell your best friend to go introduce himself to an airlock, when the world's falling in around your ears.  
  
I have no business being on the bridge, I think. Stavret knows how to fly the ship, and Merendith's here to keep him company. I suspect there's something going on, there, and if Stavret's going to make me talk, I'm going to ask. Right now, though, I'm going to go back to bed. Just going to stare at the canopy and write haiku chains until I pass out, again.  
  
Nothing that can't be slept off, right?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Zahvan T'Masu, T'Nis intended to release the video she'd taken to the media. The local gossip rags, of course, went nuts... And then the news hit the Enterprise.

**From _Superficial and Terran_ :**  
_Ambassador Sarek_ 's son _Commander Spock_ \-- one of the few Vulcans in Starfleet -- was spending last night in the arms of his lover -- a Romulan swashbuckler, with no name on record! What bars does he go to, and can we know where they are? Check out the stills we've got, but be careful, they're NSFW.  
  
**From _The Daily Spanner_ :**  
Looks like the Federation's making peace overtures to the Romulans! Last night, Ambassador Sarek's son was filmed in some rather compromising positions with an unknown Romulan. View the article in full, for video!  
  
**From _Celebrity Fragfest_ :**  
The Federation's prized half-Vulcan was filmed, last night, in the home of Vulcan expatriate and patron of the arts, T'Nis. All ears on deck predicted he'd wind up in her bed by the end of the night, but we were in for a shocker! Turns out Spock swings the other way, and rather happily, according to the clips and stills we received from the security tapes!  
  
**From _alt.starfleet.ships.enterprise_ :**  
> Congratulations, Spock! Way to score one for all of us! (If you're done with him, can I have his routing codes? 'Cause hot DAMN, boy.)  
  
> What the fuck, man. Do Vulcans even have sex? I thought that required emotion.  
  
> 8.5 out of any 10 Terran males can prove the previous poster incorrect.  
  
> Guys, can we stop talking about Vulcans and sex? This is not what I want to be reading over my goddamned morning coffee.  
  
> Shut your face, Doc. We all know it's you. ...You know, as far as I can tell, they really are retractable. I mean, check out the fifth still from Fragfest.  
  
> Okay, so, we've all seen him naked. Is anyone going to be able to take another order without laughing?  
  
> No, but I'll take it while I'm laughing. I ain't getting my ass written up for this.  
  
> Hey, Spock, what night are you coming back from leave? You, ah... wanna come out and have a good time? *winks*


	5. Boomerang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even more unintended consequences of the events in ZahvanT’Masu.

T’Nis stood on the balcony, the arid winds sending tendrils of hair up and about her face. 

There was a small army out in the desert now, bristling with lenses and wide-spectrum antennas. They were clustered where the drive met the main road, for now kept at bay by the invisible but stringent countermeasures she had in place. But the sunlight glittered off glass and metal. The beast was hungry. 

Scowling, she made her way back into the living area, the changing pressure sending more hair into motion. Cash, from, his sprawled position on the sofa, thought she looked pretty close to one of the Gorgons from ancient myth, but of course he didn’t say so. 

The Vulcan returned to her chair, hand on the interface in the arm of it. The holoscreens formed a wide patchwork of shifting color in front of the fireplace. The images showed up well against the black. 

One oblong was larger than the rest and the sound was up. “And we’re back to Good Day L.A. with your host Nischelle Espinosa.”

“Good morning. We are live right now via subspace with Torvir, a doctoral candidate in sociology from the Vulcan Science Academy. Now even though most of our viewers don’t really care about science, this morning has seen a definite spike in the the number of searches for “Vulcan anatomy”, particularly from homes located in our West Hollywood sector. And boyfriends, I feel you. That action even got me wishing I was there.” The blonde on screen fans herself, winking broadly. 

“Now Torvir, what is the feeling about last night’s Romulan love-fest in your city of Shi’Kahr right now?

“It is the rest period here, Nischelle. Most residents are asleep at at this time.”

“Okay, but, uh, what was the reaction this evening, before everybody went to bed?”

“In the interests of diplomacy, I decline to comment.”

“You . . . right. Okay, I guess not all Vulcans are going to just reveal everything on camera.” She gave one of her affected giggles and pressed on. “How about your personal reactions, then?”

“I thank you for your question. I wish to respond by saying it is clear that the one called T’Nis has made a grave error in submitting the footage. One must wonder about her motivations in this affair.”

“But what about Spock getting it on with a sworn enemy?”

“The act itself is less important than the fact that a member of our own race chose to release --”

The sound from the broadcast was cut off as the warble from a high-priority message overrode the signal. T’Nis keyed for acceptance.

An older male Vulcan appeared onscreen. Cash sat up. This was going to be interesting. 

“Sov-masu-thek?”

“Daddy,” T’Nis said carefully. She was more dubious about a communication from one of her parents than Cash had ever seen. 

“Yar-kush, your father and I just heard. You know how slowly the the news reaches us out here. We are worried about you.”

Another, more serious and darker-haired Vulcan elbowed his way onto the screen. “Indeed, we are concerned about your mental health.”

“Father. You do not approve?”

“Of course not. Commander Spock was never involved in our lives. And to make such a mockery of his obvious fondness for the Romulan commander -”

“Who is very attractive, by the way.” said the first Vulcan, eyebrow up. “Wherever did you find him, slor-veh?”

“Hush, Selov, not now.”

Selov gave his mate a sidelong look. “Yes, later. When you’ll have me speak to you in Romulan as we --”

“Stop!” said T’Nis, panicked. Her hands were up to her ears, the tips of which were bright green. 

“As if anything could shock you after last night,” Selov remonstrated. A bit pettishly, she felt.

“T’Nis,” came Tunor’s stern voice. “We did not set you up in luxury on Earth so that you could sully the reputation of our race.”

“The reputation of Vulcans? They sent you into exile!”

“That is a truth, daughter. However until this escapade, our exile was a purely internal affair. Now it is not.” And he came as close to making a face as T’Nis had ever seen.

“Not only that,” Selov continued, “Members of the Vulcan High Council are on their way here to make sure that we had nothing to do with this incident.”

“Oh, Daddy, no.” 

“Yes,” he sniffed. “And you know how little we wish to see them. Surely you could have forseen this, pi’sehlat ?”

“Furthermore,” came Tunor’s deeper voice, “they will not be the only ones who visit us. Pack your effects. You are coming home for an extended stay, during which we will discuss whether you should return to Earth at all.”

T’Nis stared at the holo. Her eyes hardened. “And if I refuse?”

“Then we are in a position to refuse you a great many things. Of course, you are welcome to experiment with seeing whether you are able to support yourself.”

Tunor straightened his robes eyeing her directly. “We have been overly lax with you. This will now change.”


	6. The Romulan Response

Ever since their son had disappeared with that Stavret boy, Voorlek and Kavera had been leaving the Federation subspace receiver switched on, in their living room, hoping for some news from beyond the Neutral Zone -- hoping for some sign that Starek was alive, at all. If he were still in the Empire, of course, they would be made aware, as soon as he was found.

Kavera had settled in, to watch the latest Federation sex scandal unfold -- she wanted something silly and meaningless with her dessert, that night, when she heard that one of the participants was a Romulan expatiriate. This would be a good one, for certain, and no doubt the Empire would demand their citizen returned, immediately to the border. She nearly dropped her bowl into her lap, when the images began to appear.

"Voorlek! Voorlek! _H'tah-fvienn! Choch!_ "

Voorlek rushed into the room, confused and alarmed to see his wife pale-faced and pointing at the screen. " _Fvah?_ "

"Starek..." she groaned, in horror, " _ih'thaessu... hrrau'mne..._ "

Voorlek blinked in stunned disgust as he parsed the images going by on the screen. It wasn't so much that his son was with a man -- he'd really expected that, watching the boy with Stavret, all those years, it was that his son was _naked_   on a public subspace broadcast. Naked, with a _Vulcan_ performing distinctly obscene acts upon him.

" _Dii thiich_ ," he offered with a shrug, trying to find a bright side.

" _Hrhae lloann nnea'anna ih'thaessu, dhat'i elet!_ " Kavera protested.

" _Partrai hwio kheid? Hhaetn ihir sentaire rhae..._ " Voorlek sat on the arm of the sofa, giving Kaevera a kiss on the top of her head. " _Hhaetn dii viduus._ "

" _Daie hhaetn dii viduus._ " She gestured at the screen, pausing to cock her head. " _Rrhaar thaessu hhaetn partrai demhos._ "

* * *

**Merendith's Personal Log**

As anticipated, the Empire demanded the return of 'the traitor' -- only one, which says they haven't noticed Stavret's missing -- so he could be put to death. The only charges they could find sufficient evidence to press were leaving the Empire without a military escort and consorting with an enemy of the state. As neither of these charges carry much weight with the Federation, Federation officials promptly offered Starek asylum, as a defector, provided he would grant them access to any Romulan secrets he possessed.

Neither Starek nor Stavret have any love for politics or politicians, and they never made themselves known to claim the offer. Don't think they will, either. They would not be Federation citizens. They aren't citizens of any Empire, and as Starek's become fond of saying, it would take more than a good dicking, to change that.

The Romulans still haven't noticed the missing ship, and fucked if we're going to point it out.


	7. Na'Shaya [Respite]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A distant planet offers a haven for Spock.

Spock keyed the address into the hovercab’s console and slouched back against his seat. Of course it was improper to sit with such a lackadaisical bend in his spine, but at this point he was too exhausted to care. And, really, with all he had suffered during the past week, such a minor lapse was due him. 

He ran through the sequence of events in his mind. Immediately after retreating from Sarek’s blistering invective, Spock’s communicator had gone off. It was Pike, ordering him in carefully neutral tones to report to Starfleet command. The captain had schooled his voice so thoroughly that Spock was left with no indication about what his superior thought of the whole affair. However, the officers assigned to examine him showed no such restraint They were clearly disgusted by his conduct. 

It was not a tribunal. That would have required protocols and at least a modicum of courtesy. Instead, the marathon session had been closer to an interrogation, with a great deal of sneering at his so-called Vulcan control. Once they were satisfied he’d leaked nothing, they allowed him to stumble out into the following morning’s glare, sleep-deprived and suspended from active duty.

The suspension had hit him hard. Spock had been looking forward to rejoining his ship, with its calm, orderly schedule, but more than that, to belonging again. But evidently he belonged nowhere at this time. 

Which was why he had even agreed to come to this small, forgotten world. He was here now after three days aboard an outdated freighter, confining himself to a cabin that was little wider than a closet in order to escape the rough jibes of the crew. 

The cab took him through green fields, still farmed as in the days before large-scale hydroponics. Herd animals of an unfamiliar species clustered on the slopes of the more marginal land, chewing their cud and watching the cab with eyes that held no understanding of scandals or betrayal. 

Once again, as he had many times this week, Spock took out his communicator, running the hailing code that Starek had given through his mind. The sequence was like a talisman to him now. A symbol of something that, despite all the resulting tribulations, he would never regret. 

He closed his eyes, imagining for the thousand and twenty-eighth time how Starek had looked in those final moments before they were parted. 

Spock must have imagined his way into a doze, for when he next sat up, the cab had stopped and Tunor was standing outside, politely clearing his throat. 

“Na’shaya na’ith’du, halovasu,” he said, stepping back and giving the ta’al and the flat-palmed encouragement to follow. 

Spock took hold of his single shoulder bag and eased his long legs out of the vehicle. The ground was loamy here, and grass grew in abundance. 

“We are pleased that you have come. Honored, in point of fact,” Tunor murmured as Spock fell into step beside him. 

“It is I who am honored.” Spock looked up at the residence on the rise above them. It was distinctly more Vulcan in appearance than his daughter’s abode. The interior was the same, with tiled floors and bare walls with the occasional woven hanging. 

Selov met them in the entrance hall with greetings and cups of warm tea, which they downed quickly, as was the custom. Spock could smell other culinary preparations, including the unmistakable aroma of raw plomik. 

“If you would like to refresh yourself, we have a sand-room,” Selov offered. Spock could not help noticing that the man’s clothes were considerably more vivid than was customary. 

“That would be agreeable. I have not made use of a sand-room in some time.”

“We can accompany you-”

“I shall accompany our guest,” Tunor said firmly. “You must complete preparations of the evening meal.” 

Selov’s expression arranged itself into what Spock was certain was a pout, but it vanished quickly. “Very well,” he said primly, “Dinner is in half a v’hral. Be prompt.”

Tunor took Spock downstairs, to an area that was thermally isolated from the rest of the house. Even the disrobing chamber held that familiar arid heat of their home planet. 

“You will have to excuse my mate,” Tunor murmured, casually stripping down. “He is at times . . . overeager in his welcome of a guest that we have actually invited. I am trying to impress upon him that you have had enough of being a spectacle.”

“More than enough,” Spock agreed. 

The sand-room itself was as pleasantly hot as any he remembered. Also the grains of sand were the perfect size, fine enough to be easy on the skin, but coarse enough not to fly into a powder and irritate the respiratory passages. The two Vulcans spent some time rubbing themselves briskly with handfuls of the stuff before Tunor straddled the wooden bench in the one area of the room that was kept free of sand. 

“I trust it was not too arduous to reach our corner of the universe?”

Spock seated himself on the bench with his back towards the other. “Far less so than enduring a visit from the Vulcan High Council.”

Tunor unstoppered a vessel of oil and poured out careful lines of the reddish substance along Spock’s shoulders. “Thankfully that ordeal is now past. And indeed, some interesting points were raised.”

“May I inquire further?” Spock closed his eyes, sinking in to the comforting feel of the strong hands massaging oil into his back. 

“Although we had no idea of the depths our child would sink to, we admitted our fault, of course. We had certainly been unmindful of her upbringing. However, Selov did make the point that had we been allowed to remain upon the homeworld, T’Nis would have been better schooled in the proper deportment of a female Vulcan, as well as exposed to a great deal more rational thought. You see, there was no basis for this here. Her surrogate was human, as were her early caretakers.”

Spock turned and applied the oil to Tunor’s back in turn. “It is a logical argument.”

“It is indeed. Although it was met with quite some resistance from the,” and he inserted a well-timed pause, “esteemed council members.”

The reply was rueful. “That is quite easy to imagine.”

“Yes, but thankfully my mate is nothing if not persistent. Our earlier guests left several days ago -- rather more quickly than we had anticipated. And then, of course, we contacted you.”

Spock was amused at this and was also relaxed enough to let it show. 

Both were silent for a time, quickly and efficiently coating themselves with oil until they gleamed with it. The deglazing, achieved with wooden scrapers that fitted cleverly into the hand, was accomplished somewhat more slowly. But since all Vulcans were accustomed to sand baths from a young age, it was nonetheless a swift process. 

“May I inquire as to how long you have lived in exile?” 

“T’Nis was born shortly after our arrival here. She is twenty-three.” 

“A quarter century,” Spock mused, cleaning his scraper on the edge of a stone bowl used for the purpose. “Were the decision reversed, would you return?”

Tunor considered for a moment, his dark eyes glinting in the chamber’s low light. “Perhaps if we were allowed to live together. And freely.”

The pair returned to the sand for a final scrubbing, brushed each other down, and then exited to the antechamber where fresh clothes had been laid out for them. 

“Ah, I see Selov took the suggestion of lending my garments, rather than his. Few of our people care to emulate his,” and again, he inserted a polite pause, “aesthetic ideals.”

When they were again dressed. Tunor led Spock to the dining table with it’s hard, traditional seating. Spock found this oddly comforting. A tureen full of plomik stew awaited them and Selov ladled out a generous amount, passing Spock an equally full plate of herbed fried bread.

“Your generosity is most welcome at this time.”

“It is the least in our power, Spock-kam,” Selov regarded him warmly. And far less than we owe. 

Selov fussed over him in a most curious manner, passing more food, and inquiring often as to whether everything was adequate. But Spock, to his surprise found the attention decidedly agreeable. They passed the meal with talk of trivial matters, utensils clinking gently. 

“We customarily study and meditate after the evening meal,” Tunor informed him. “However, your journey has doubtlessly fatigued you. Should you wish to retire, your room is up that staircase, second door to your left. There are no cameras,” he added, meaningfully.

“That is,” and Spock put in his own pause, “highly agreeable.” Spock nodded formally, more at ease than he had been for many days. 

Tunor took a stack of plates in to Selov who was arranging things in the kitchen. “Any word from our other guest?”

Selov gave him an eyebrow. “He left a message while we were eating. His ETA is sometime tomorrow morning. Did you inform Spock?”

Tunor passed off the crockery and folded his hands in his sleeves. “I would rather that he sleep soundly this evening.”

“You think of everything,” Selov put down the stack and held out his fingers for the el’ru’esta. “The poor dear. Yes, knowing that Starek is on his way would be apt to cause far too much excitement.

“Speaking of which,” he moved closer to his mate. “Shall we leave the dishes?”

“We shall wash them together, then study, and then meditate.” Tunor insisted, “And then we shall see.”


End file.
